A little fire
by Nesta
Summary: More of Elboron's reminiscences, centring on his sister Fíriel.


A little fire

Oh yes, I was going to tell you about Fíriel protecting Father. Here's one instance I'll never forget, a sort of retrospective one. I don't know if it was funny or tragic or terrible – perhaps all three. You can judge for yourself. I'll trust you not to let it go any further, anyway.

It started late one afternoon in late spring, just before Fíriel's seventh birthday. I'd been out exploring all day and was cooling my feet in the little stream than marks the boundary between the end of our gardens and the beginning of the woods. (Father wouldn't have it fenced, he said anyone was welcome to walk in our gardens, except the really special ones that belonged just to the family. And as for safety, the White Company were a better defence than any fences or walls.) Well, there I was wriggling my toes, when Fíriel came in sight, trotting along with a doll under her arm and a look on her face … well, if you can imagine a thunderstorm with long black plaits and dressed in a green smock, that's what she looked like.

As soon as she saw me she changed course. I expected to be struck by lightning any moment, but she only said, 'Elboron, come and help.'

I removed my feet from the water and started to put my shoes back on. When Fíriel gave a command, it was wise to obey.

'Help with what?' I asked.

'I need your strike-a-light.'

'Whatever for?'

'I'm going to burn Grandfather,' she said, whisking back on to her former route. I took a long stride to catch her up.

'You're _what_?'

'I'm going to burn Grandfather.' She waved the doll she was carrying. It was a wooden one, a gift from someone in Rohan who wasn't a great hand at woodcarving. She had kept it because it was one of Father's rules that a gift always had to be honoured, but it undeniably had a disagreeable expression.

'But why?' I said feebly.

'Don't you know? He tried to kill Father.' She gave me a ferocious look, as if I'd accused her of lying. 'He did, he really did.' This time a thunderbolt seemed more likely than mere lightning.

Fíriel was right, of course. I'm sure you know the story, everyone does. I'm told that after the War the king offered to have it suppressed, but Father said it was wrong to deny the truth and anyway, too many people knew it already. So it never has been denied, but nobody who loved Father – and who didn't? – ever referred to it in his hearing. It was the Thing That Must Not Be Mentioned. It was never mentioned in my hearing, either, until I was about ten, though I do remember some funny looks and strange pauses in conversation even before that – not that I'm particularly observant in such matters. Father told it to me himself, toning it down as much as he possibly could, but it still made me feel quite shaky and gave me nightmares for weeks – and that isn't something that normally troubles me. The thought of six-year-old Fíriel knowing the story gave me the horrors.

'Fíriel, how do you know about this? Did Father tell you?' It seemed incredible that Father should have told her, but as I told you before, they have a kind of communion that nobody else can possibly understand.

'No. Pippin told me.'

This was more shocking still. Pippin was one of our hobbits – Halflings if you like that better. There were three of them that Gondor, and especially Ithilien, delighted to honour: Master Samwise, Master Meriadoc and Master Peregrin. Or at least, that's what they were called officially. Father never addressed them any other way, he said they deserved all the courtesy we could offer. They clearly loved that – hobbits seem to have a great fondness for ceremonial – but unofficially, Fíriel and I called them Sam, Merry and Pippin, and they didn't mind. They had only just left us after a visit of several days, which included the famous incident of the pipe-weed – I'll tell you about that some other time. They were our particular friends and the greatest fun, but I had always firmly believed that they were wise and trustworthy as well. I couldn't imagine why Pippin should have blurted out the horrible old story to Fíriel; it wasn't like him at all.

Fíriel read all this in my face. She was like Father in that, as in most things: nothing escaped her. 'It wasn't his fault, I made him tell me.'

I could understand that, and my feelings towards Master Peregrin immediately became sympathetic. If Fíriel wanted you to tell her something, you told her – like Father again, except that Father was often so subtle about it that you hardly realised what was happening, whereas Fíriel was as direct as a sword-thrust.

'Why, Fíriel?'

'Because nobody would explain why we treat him with so much honour. Sam went to Mount Doom with the Ringbearer, Merry helped Mother slay the Witch-King, but nobody would tell me what Pippin did and I knew that it must have been something just as important. It didn't make sense and I hate things not to make sense. So I made him tell me. And now I'm going to burn Grandfather.'

'And what's Father going to say when he finds out?

She gave me an anguished look. We both knew Father would be horrified, and maybe even angry, a prospect to make the boldest tremble. But the next moment the lightning was back in her eyes.

'It's for Father I'm doing it. I'm going to burn…'

'Yes, I know.'

If I had had some confused idea of diverting her from her fearsome purpose, I had been comprehensively out-manoeuvred. Instead I found myself silently applauding her logic. We had arrived at a small glade, where a square of turf had already been cut out and some dry twigs neatly piled. Fíriel had clearly made her preparations carefully. Where she would have found her fire, if she hadn't met me, I don't know. I had a feeling that one glance from her eyes would have made the wood burn of itself.

Fíriel laid the doll carefully on top of the twigs and stood back. 'Now light it.'

I made one last effort. 'Fíriel, what do you suppose will happen if we start lighting fires, here in the woods? There'll be the most terrible trouble.'

I spoke with feeling. I'd only just been trusted with a strike-a-light and it had been accompanied with a formidable list of rules about careful use, together with an even more fearful list of punishments that I'd incur if I broke them. I knew the rules were sensible; Ithilien is full of aromatic plants that catch fire with terrifying readiness. Anyone in Ithilien who sees smoke in the wrong place is likely to snatch up a container of water and run. What's more, Fíriel and I both knew that wherever we were, there was likely to be someone from the White Company not far off. It wasn't that they spied on us, in fact they had specific orders not to, but we knew they'd be there.

'I don't care. By the time they find us, it'll be too late, and they can do what they like.'

This wasn't like Fíriel at all; she wasn't a rule-breaker. In some ways I was, but I didn't want to seem like a careless fire-raising lout just after receiving such a token of trust from Father. But after a glance at Fíriel's pale, angry, inexorable little face I took out the strike-a-light and concentrated on making a flame. She had prepared the fire carefully and it caught quite quickly. As I'd feared, however, it soon produced a thread of blue smoke that mounted remorselessly above the height of the trees and caught the westering sun with horrible clarity.

Fíriel took no notice. She watched the fire, feeding it with additional twigs and catching her breath with satisfaction as the doll began to burn. It was me who jumped violently – though I'd been expecting it – as a green-clad figure (they are White only by courtesy, they dress in green just as the Rangers always did) stepped silently out of the trees. Then, as I recognised him, I fairly grunted with relief, because it was Bergil. Bergil was another of our particular friends, the son of Beregond who was father's captain and right-hand man; and I knew, and by now I supposed Fíriel knew, that Beregond had been up to his neck in the awful events that we were now, should I say, celebrating. And Bergil, who simply adored Father, wasn't likely to harbour kindly thoughts of someone who had tried to burn him alive. So on this occasion I faced up to him with fair confidence, though still hoping that explanations wouldn't be necessary.

'What's this?' he said sharply, peering around – what with the smoke and evening coming on, the glade was becoming quite shadowy. 'The Young Lord? And Lady Fíriel? Was it you who lit the fire?'

I nodded, trying to look imperious and dignified to fit the title he'd just given me, though there had been an edge of irony in his voice.

'And what possessed you to do that?'

Fíriel got to her feet and gave Bergil a luminous smile, a foretaste of the smile that not many years later would be turning strong men giddy. 'Elboron made the fire for me,' she said sweetly. 'I wanted him to show me how to use the strike-a-light. He's so very proud of it, you see.' This was a typical piece of Fíriel-ish cleverness; my pride in my new acquisition had been such that I had been showing it to anyone who would stand still for long enough. Bergil laughed, though he still looked a little suspicious, and said that that was all very well, but the fire must be put right out straight away and we must both come back to the house under his escort, before it got dark – darkness falls swiftly in Ithilien in spring.

'Very well, Master Bergil,' said Fíriel with a still more dazzling smile, and took a long stick and gave the charred, and mercifully unrecognisable, remains of the doll one last vindictive prod.

That might have been the end of the matter, but, as you've probably realised by now, Fíriel doesn't always react to things the way you'd expect her to. By the time we got back to the house her anger had – can I say? – burned out and she was very subdued. She ate practically nothing for supper, and afterwards she went and sat by Mother and pretended to work at her sewing, which she normally hated and would do only under duress. Mother looked at her in astonishment, but asked no questions; she was good that way. I fiddled with some wood-carving I was doing and nearly cut the end off one finger; I couldn't concentrate when Fíriel was so obviously unhappy. So when Father came in he found a rather sorry-looking family awaiting him. He'd come, of course, to collect Fíriel for her bedtime story. This was their sacred hour, and whatever else had to be sacrificed in Father's busy schedule, Fíriel's story never was. But on this occasion Fíriel, instead of flying into his arms as she normally did – I really mean flying, her feet never seemed to touch the ground – just got up and stood before him looking the very picture of woe.

'I can't have a story tonight,' she said in a very soft, very clear little voice, 'because I've been a Bad Girl.'

Father looked at her in astonishment, and was obviously on the point of asking her what she'd done, but after a glance at her, changed his mind.

'I see,' he said very gravely. 'Have you been such a bad girl that you can't kiss me good-night?'

Fíriel reviewed her own conduct and passed sentence.

'Yes,' she whispered.

Father's lips twitched, though his eyes were very tender. 'Have you been such a bad girl that you can't kiss Mother and Elboron good-night?'

Fíriel thought again and shook her head, her expression brightening a little. She went over to Mother and kissed her solemnly on both cheeks – they always treated each other like a pair of queens in conclave – and then came and kissed me, but as she did so she whispered fiercely in my ear, 'Don't tell!'

Morwen came in – Morwen always seemed to know when she was wanted – and Fíriel took her hand meekly. She looked dead tired, the paleness of her face seeming almost transparent; but as she reached the door she turned and smiled at Father: not the charm-smile she'd used on Bergil, but the smile she kept for Father alone.

'I'll be a Good Girl in the morning,' she said.

As the door closed behind her, Father turned to me.

'Elboron,' he said, 'is this something I ought to know about?'

Don't ask me how he knew I was involved. As I told you before, he can read minds if he wants to. But he was also very good at knowing when it was best not to know something, if you follow me. There were quite a few escapades of mine which he didn't know about, at least not officially; I'd never have taken a wager on his not knowing unofficially. But this was different. I could tell from his expression that he wasn't teasing me, or accusing me: he was actually, seriously, asking my advice, and about Fíriel too. I felt such a lump in my throat, of mingled sadness and pride, that I almost choked.

'No, sir,' I managed to say. 'At least, I think Fíriel will tell you herself, when she's ready.'

'Very well,' he said, and took up a book and immersed himself in it.

Well, that's the story. As I said, it may make you laugh, or it may not. I don't know whether, or when, Fíriel did talk to Father about what had happened, or about the whole terrible story, but I never again heard either them allude to it. So far as I know, it didn't give Fíriel nightmares, though she is far more sensitive than I am; burning Grandfather seems to have been a good idea, from that point of view. To this day, if our grandfather's name is mentioned in her hearing, she'll go white with anger and her eyes will blaze. To tell the truth, from what I've heard about our grandfather, she seems to have something of his character in her; but I've never dared say as much to Fíriel.


End file.
